Five Meetings
by LenaAlexHunt
Summary: When the mysterious, hazel-eyed, burnt-auburn-haired girl collides with DI John Bloom at Waterloo Station and slips him a note to pass to Martha Lawson, a chain of events are set in motion that will change the lives of everyone Martha knows.
1. John Bloom – July 2nd

**A/N: Hi everyone! So, a deviation from my usual Ashes stuff. But here is my Identity fanfic! Please note it was written when I only knew the official summary for ep 6 and hadn't seen the episode itself. (I have now - AMAZING.)**

**Anyhoo... R&R! Enjoy x**

The first time I meet Alisa, she is running. She is about sixteen, with ginger-blonde hair flying out behind her like a flag, unchecked, almost a hindrance. Her brown eyes are lit up with a keen expectation and her arms are outstretched, reaching out for someone, something. Her eyes seem to be fixed on me, and her feet trace a path that seems to lead straight to me. She looks, for a single instant, so like Martha, that my heart skips a beat. I am on the verge of calling out when she crashes into me, her face instantly changing, becoming less expectant and more apologetic. She steps backwards, apologising profusely as she stumbles away. "I'm so sorry, I need to be somewhere, sorry..."

Before I can respond, reassure her, she steps around me and is enveloped in the arms of a man who seems, at first glance, to be a male version of Martha. As I stare, I notice small changes, minute differences. Blue eyes. Darker brown hair. More flawed skin. My curiosity roused, I take a step towards him and offer my right hand, holding out my warrant card in my left. "DI John–"

He doesn't even flinch, to his credit. Not the slightest twitch of a hair or bat of an eyelid. Instead, he smiles mysteriously. "Don't tell Martha we're here, yeah?" he says, and with that, he turns and walks away.

She reaches out and slides a piece of paper into my hand. Winking, she links arms with the man and they disappear into the crowd.

Looking down, I read the atrocious handwriting and just about manage to decipher the words: "Tell Martha we're here. Alisa Lawson, 07959378385."

Looking up, I stare after her in disbelief.

"Well, fuck me." I exclaim quietly.


	2. Tessa Stein – 2nd July

I sit at my desk, mundanely flicking through live CCTV footage. Martha's intent on keeping track of Bloom, and since his car was captured by a traffic camera, heading west on the South Bank, I've been following his progress by guesswork. But his path is totally illogical, heading in the direction of Waterloo Station at a snail's pace in the thronging traffic, at its peak – five o'clock rush hour.

_Waterloo Station? Why? _I ask myself, but flip through yet more shots, finally finding his car in the car park at the back of the station and switching to one of the main interior cameras, panning the main shopping area where tourists, travellers and commuters mingle together, making one huge crowd, constantly moving, constantly changing. And then I see him. He's walking towards the gates, and as I zoom in as close as I can, I see he looks pensive, calm. "What are you _doing,_ Bloom?" I mutter to myself, and switch cameras, getting closer with each leap.

The girl runs out of nowhere, colliding with Bloom and reeling back. Her mouth moves and I sense rather than hear her apology. She sidesteps and runs around him, straight towards the camera. Bloom is staring after her in shock as she moves to embrace a man behind him. He's not the only one. My jaw has fallen open in amazement and I gasp.

"What?" My colleague, DS Anthony Wareing, has moved to stand beside my shoulder. "What's Bloom done this time?" He asks, bending to look at my screen.

"Not Bloom," I say, watching him flash his warrant card. "The girl. Who does she look like to you?"

"Bloody hell." Anthony exclaims, peering at the screen. At some point, DC José Rodriguez has joined us and he stares too. Anthony looks from the screen to Martha, sat on the phone across the office, but it's José who voices what we're all thinking.

"But she looks like Martha…" He thinks out loud, and I raise my eyebrows skywards.

"Well done." I say sarcastically as the girl hands Bloom something and turns to leave. "Three years at university and all you got was a degree in Stating the Bloody Obvious."

"Well, if she's leaving, hadn't we best show Martha?" He responds, jerking his thumb in her general direction. Only when I look up, her desk is vacant.

"Show me what?" The all-too-familiar cut-glass voice of our Detective Superintendent asks from behind us, and we all jump. There's no point trying to deny it.

"I was tracking Bloom on the CCTV, like you asked, and I found him at Waterloo Station. But that's not the interesting part. Watch the girl." Martha shoves Anthony and José out of the way, edging closer to the screen as I press play. She watches the short interaction and her eyes widen.

"Shit! It can't be…" she peers closer, then backs away, walking over to her desk and snatching her coat from the back of her chair. Turning, she strides towards the doors to the office.

"Where are you going? Who are they? Martha?" I call after her in bewilderment.

"I've got to get to Waterloo. Cover for me." She calls back, and then she's gone. Anthony, José and I exchange a look. Anthony exhales slowly, thoughtfully.

"That girl must be either one hell of a threat to the country or…" he trails off.

"Or what?" I ask impatiently, keen to solve the mystery.

"Or Martha's not been telling us the whole truth."


	3. Alisa Lawson – 3rd July

The phone rings when I least expect it to. I'm trying to forget about my fear, so I'm watching a re-run of _Have I Got News For You _late in the evening when the familiar opening bars of my ringtone cut over Paul Merton telling a joke about David Cameron. I jump, and look at the screen. _Unknown Number Calling._

One of the rules I made for myself years ago was that I would never, ever answer a phone call from an unknown number. More often than not it's some idiot in my class, who got hold of my number from the friend of a friend, prank calling me from a sleepover, and it was a waste of my time to accept their calls. But since yesterday, nothing is certain. My heart skips a beat.

_It's her. _I think to myself. _Oh my God, it's actually her._ Before I can think about it any more, before I can overcomplicate things or get my hopes up, I press "Accept call" and hold the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" I ask nervously, fully expecting a giggling teenager but hoping nonetheless.

"Alisa? It's… it's your aunt, it's Martha." An upper-class voice on the other end tells me. My heart stops. I forget how to speak. "Alisa? You told Bloom to tell me to phone you. I know I haven't seen you in years, and that hasn't been easy, but I'm willing to put aside any differences with your father to help you. And I think you do need my help, don't you?"

Tears fill my eyes. She sounds so _nice,_ not the hard-hearted, cruel woman Dad made her out to be. When I speak, my voice wobbles embarrassingly. "Yes, I do… I don't know who else to turn to. You have to help me, please…"

"It's alright," she reassures me. "Tell me what's wrong, it's alright, I promise. I can help you."

My voice drops to a whisper, even though I'm alone in the flat and no-one can hear me. I hope. "I can't tell you now. It's not safe. I need to tell you in person. Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is fine with me, but shouldn't you be in school?" Martha worries, and I laugh without any humour. She hasn't seen me for years and yet she still frets.

"It's infinitely more important than my education. I can't wait any longer, I need to tell you. I need your help, and soon. Millie's Café, ten o'clock?" I ask, my voice shamefully expectant at the end.

"I'll see you then." She confirms, and then she rings off. I lower the phone and assess the situation.

Dad problem – bad. Very bad. Missing school – bad, but can't be helped. Meeting with estranged aunt of thirteen years – good.

I smile. Maybe things aren't looking so bad after all.


	4. Alisa Lawson – 4th July

I sit in the café, fiddling with a napkin nervously. An untouched, steaming cappuccino sits in front of me, and the wrapper for the small sweet biscuit that came with it. I check my watch. 9:56. I've been sat here for six minutes, and the nerves have been building steadily. _What if she doesn't like me? _My irrational subconscious asks, and I inwardly tell it to shut up. Taking out my phone I use the screen as a mirror, checking my hair is still styled immaculately, in loose flowing waves, and that my makeup is intact. Satisfied, I press a button and the time flashes up on the display. 9:57.

I scowl. _Why is time passing so slowly? Why did I get here so early? What if she's late?_ Questions fly around my head, trying to distract me. I take a deep breath and fix my gaze on one of the portraits on the walls. I study it intently, noting each little detail mentally, trying to keep my breathing calm and even, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach.

As my eyes are dragged inexplicably down to my phone screen I watch the time change from 9:57 to 9:58 and begin to count the flashes of the pips between the digits to try to keep calm. _One, two, three, four…_

The phone rings, no noise coming from the handset but it vibrates across the tabletop. The display reads "School" and I press reject, scrolling through menus and adding the number to my Auto-Reject list. I go back to the clock. I've lost count now. I frown again. The digits shift to read 9:59 and I am about to start counting again when a voice behind me speaks.

"Alisa?" it asks, and I turn. Stood before me is a woman who can only be Martha Lawson. She's well dressed, in a beige trench-coat and cream skirt, black high heels adding another two inches to her already impressive height. Her makeup is, like mine, immaculate, and her hair, although it is the same colour as mine, is cut to just below the ears and neatly brushed into a bob. I stand, for no conceivable reason.

"Martha?" I guess, and she nods, looking me up and down, appraising my worn-out gladiator sandals, skinny jeans and loose linen top. Then without any warning, she pulls me into a hug, and I find myself hugging her back, my face buried in her shoulder.

I pull away reluctantly after a few seconds and am surprised to see tears in her eyes. "Wow, you've changed. You were just a little three year old the last time I saw you… when did you get so grown up?" She asks, and I smile.

"I would say you've changed, but I can't really remember you very much." I admit. "Although I know you've been promoted into the big time, you were just a WPC last time I saw you. You let me wear your hat…" She laughs at the memory.

"I have, Detective Superintendent now. My own unit, the Identity Unit. Helping to bring to justice the nastiest type of criminals, the ones you can't see. They can take everything without you even knowing. It's a frightening thought, isn't it?" She asks me, and I nod. I know what it's like to have everything taken without realising. When Mum died of cancer, it was so sudden and unexpected that no-one could have foreseen it. One day she was fine, laughing and singing and swinging me around, the next she was hospitalised in ICU.

"But you know all that anyway, which is, I assume, why you need my help." She deduces, and I meet her eyes for the first time. Hazel eyes, the precise shape and colour of my own. Mum told me once that when Martha took me out as a toddler, people often thought I was her daughter rather than her niece. _The eyes have it, _she said.

"Yes." I manage. "It's Dad, he's in trouble. And I'm scared, and I don't know who else to trust." I can see she's uncomfortable with Dad being mentioned. They had some kind of argument when I was three, and I hadn't seen Martha since. I look down at the table and then back up again.

"Tell me." She says quietly, and I take a deep breath, having rehearsed what I was going to say over and over again.

"A year or so ago, Dad started going out with this woman. Caterina. She's Russian, twenty something, blonde and entirely creepy. I didn't like her, but Dad seemed to, so I didn't say anything. But I did some Googling, and the results were alarming. There was a page from a Russian newspaper, and translated, it said that she had been arrested for having links to the Russian Mafia, Stalingrad Family. It was suspected that she was one of the lieutenants, but she was acquitted due to lack of evidence. Or as I took it to mean, they paid off the Russian police–" Martha cuts me off.

"I can't do anything about your dad's dodgy girlfriend. Not without evidence." She says, and I roll my eyes, producing the photocopies from my bag. I hand one across the table to Martha, indicating she should read out the highlighted section, which she obligingly does.

""And so, my darling, how is the plan going? You have seduced Mr William? Foolish man, it will be all too easy to get access to the bank accounts. Once we're in, we won't need him any more, Aleksander is ready to come and take care of the brat too – we can either kill her or take her back as a present for the Don, a lovely English Rose! All my love, Ivan. "" The words sound strange in her cut-glass accent. She looks up at me in shock. "Where did you get this from?" She asks me urgently.

"Caterina left her bag once. The letter was in there. When she came back, she made a phone call in Russian. I didn't understand any of it, until she lapsed into English. She was telling someone off, shouting at them. She said she nearly had full access, that she nearly had his identity – his soul, she called it – and that the kid… I was a liability she could live without. Then she said something else in Russian and hung up." I explain quickly, and look up from my cappuccino to see Martha staring at me, worry plain to see on her face.

_She's scared for me._ I realise. _After all this time apart, she's still scared for me. And Dad. Even if something did go down between them._

She takes a deep breath, and I think she's made a decision, but she asks me yet another question: "How did you know about Bloom?"

I smile wryly. "I Googled your name, and the Identity Unit page came up. His name was listed, but no pictures. Just "DI Bloom." But a little bit of digging got me a photo, by which time I was fully planning on just emailing you, it would have been easier. But then I was at Waterloo one day, waiting for Dad to get back from a business trip, and I saw him. Stood there. Lost in the crowd. And I knew it was the chance I'd been waiting for. When Dad walked out of the gate behind him, it was only too easy." I finish, and she stares at me with a strange expression on her face. Pride? Disapproval? Amazement? Then she laughs, and I know it's none of those, but surprise.

"Well, you're certainly turning out to be full of surprises! You should join the police force, we could use brains like yours." She says, and then her expression clouds. "But what can we do? Without any further evidence, I can't do anything. We need to wait. Let her get closer, get some concrete evidence. No one messes with my big brother. And no-one tries to abduct my niece." She pauses, her mouth pulled up in an odd expression. She seems to reach a decision. "We'll put you both under police protection. Yours can be open, but his'll have to be covert. That's all I can offer you at present. OK?"

"That would be good… weird, but good. As long as I know there's someone there, I'll be OK." I confirm, and she smiles.

"Then that's sorted. And we can move on to talk about other matters. Less… imminent ones." She says, leaning forwards slightly. She is about to speak again when her phone rings. "Shit." She mutters when she sees who's calling. "Excuse me one second."

I turn away a fraction, watching out of the corner of my eye as she frowns. "Fine, I'll be there." She snaps, before hanging up. She turns to me. "Alisa, I'm so sorry, that was my boss. A problem's come up with one of our cases, one of the other units think it's theirs, want to take over. I've got to go, but we'll talk soon, I promise." She apologises. I am taken aback, then realise that it's easier to accept this fact than argue about it.

"Oh… that's fine, I understand." I find myself saying, smiling bravely. "I'll talk to you soon." I stand and hug her again. This time she pulls away, gently raising her hand and resting it on my cheek for a second.

"I'm sorry." She says again, and kisses me on the forehead before leaving.

I sit down and stare morosely at my coffee. _Police protection? _I think. _That's going to be an interesting one. Still, she seems nice. That's a start._ With that, I drain my cup and stand up to leave. There's no point in going back to school. I start the short walk back to the flat with a sigh. I'm going to get it in the neck for this tomorrow.


	5. Anthony Wareing– 4th July

The phone in my hand rings and I answer it automatically. I know it's her without looking at the caller ID. "Martha."

"Anthony, I need you to arrange police protection for Alisa and William Lawson, flat thirty-nine, Poplar Heights, Clifton Road, Twickenham. To start tomorrow morning, if possible. I want Bloom covering Alisa, and I don't care who covers William." She orders, her voice full of stress that the phone line does little to dissipate.

"Ma'am." I confirm, but my curiosity gets the better of me. "Who are they, Martha? Why are we protecting them? We're not a security service; we're the Identity Unit…"

When she speaks again, her tone is weary, harangued. "Who they are isn't important. They're under threat from the Russian Mafia, identity-motivated. Mr Lawson is a very rich man, and they're after the money. They're both At Risk, priority level red. That's why I want Bloom on it. And if you could inform anyone wanting to contact me after four o'clock that I will be in a meeting, it would be much appreciated." Her tone is warning me not to ask questions, but I can't help myself.

"Understood, but who _is _she? Is she the girl on the security camera?" I probe, worrying that my theory will be accurate, that the girl is Martha's daughter. Kids. The one sure-fire way to wreck your chances in the police force. _I can see why she packed her off with the kid's dad, _I think. _Although he _so _didn't look her type… _

Martha sighs deeply down the phone. "My brother." She says, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "My brother and my niece. They're both in danger." There's a _click _as the line goes dead, and I shake my head. _She kept that one quiet_, I muse as I walk slowly back towards my car, not looking forward to having to break it to DI Bloom that he's been assigned protection detail.

A small smile creeps onto my face. _At least he'll be out of our hair for a while. And if he messes this one up, he's out of the Unit for sure._


	6. Martha Lawson– 4th July

**A/N: Please don't be too harsh on my attempts to write from Martha's point of view... It was before watching ep six! Hope you're enjoying it so far :)**

I take a deep breath and raise my fist to knock on the door. I can't believe what I'm about to do. After thirteen years of no communication with my older brother since the "incident", here I am outside his flat, unannounced. Trying to potentially save his life.

A man in a light blue shirt and pale yellow tie answers the door, a smile plastered across his features. He sees me and freezes. This can't be my brother. He never used to be so… well kept. I remember him with dishevelled, long hair and unkempt beard. I blink and stare at him, scrutinising. I begin to see things I know. The blue eyes, familiar square jaw, the smile that pulls his mouth to one side.

I cough politely, breaking the awkward silence, and hold out my warrant card. "Detective Superintendent Martha Lawson. Can I please come in?" I ask, and the smug grin disappears from his face. He holds the door open wider and indicates with his hand I should enter.

I take a hesitant step inside, looking around at the cream carpet, the immaculate white walls adorned with black and white photographs. No family photographs, no sign that Alisa lives here. He shuts the door behind me and stares at me, a curious expression on his face. "Martha?" he asks, tone wary. He takes a measured step towards me, arms held out awkwardly and I step into his embrace, letting him hug me but remaining passive. He pulls away and gives me a worried stare. "Why are you here?"

"William, can we sit down? It's a serious matter." Something in my tone tells him that I'm telling the truth, and he turns, walking a little way down the hall and entering a wide, bright lounge. He indicates that I should sit, and I perch on one of the white leather sofas. He opts to lean against the ornate but redundant mantelpiece, and affixes me with a look that reads as "go on?"

"A matter has arisen, regarding Caterina."I begin, and he laughs bitterly.

"It was Alisa, then? She's always hated her. Hated not having my undivided attention…" He says, cocky and narrow-minded as ever. I sigh.

"No, actually. It has a bit more substance than that. Caterina has been linked with the Russian Mafia on four occasions, and now evidence has risen to light that has led us to believe that your identity – and indeed your life – is at risk." I say, and his expression drops, changing to one of shock.

"What? That can't be… she wouldn't…" he tries to deny it, but I shake my head. "How?" he asks.

"Letters have been handed to the police that contain details of a plan to steal your identity and then kill you, and potentially Alisa. Letters to Caterina." I continue, and his face falls. He walks over and collapses onto the other sofa, his head in his hands. I sit awkwardly, unsure what to do.

"Will… it's alright." I try to reassure him, and he looks up at me.

"No it bloody isn't! They'll come for me, Martha! And Alisa… God knows what they'd do to her…" his voice trails off, and I can he's bordering on hysteria. "You need to stop them! Arrest them!"

"We can't," I say, as calmly as I can manage. "We can't act until we have more evidence. We need to let Caterina get a little closer." He's looking at me, aghast. I can tell he's about to protest, so I rush on. "But we can protect you. We can put you under twenty-four police protection. And Alisa too. Alisa's needn't be undercover, but yours will need to be covert, to stop Caterina from becoming aware of them. At the moment, that's all we can offer, but I can assure you that I will assign my best officers to the case."

He nods slowly. "Can you do that?" He asks, his voice awestruck. I've changed since he last saw me, promoted up the ranks.

"I can. I've got my own unit, the Identity Unit. We're taking on your case, you can rest assured we won't let them get to you or Alisa. I promise." I tell him, and he smiles.

"You were always the clever one, weren't you? The high flyer." We both laugh briefly, and then his haunted expression returns. "I'd like police protection. When can it begin?" he asks, tone serious.

"Tomorrow at the earliest. My officers are on standby, and when I return to the office I can brief them." I say, and he nods, relieved.

"OK. I agree, I consent. Just don't let them hurt my daughter. Please… I know things weren't exactly good in the past, but please, keep her safe…" he begs, and I stand, unwilling to let him say any more, let him drag up painful memories.

"I will do my level best, William. We won't let them hurt her. Or you. I promise you, you can rest assured." I say, and just when it looks like he's about to speak again I stand. "I have to go, but here's my card, if you need to get hold of me." I hand him the small rectangle of glossy card and turn to leave. "They'll be here tomorrow morning, seven o'clock. They're the best of the best. If anyone can keep you safe, they can."

Before he can move from the sofa, I stand and stride from the flat, slamming the door with unnecessary force behind me, trying to banish all thoughts of what happened in the past from my mind.


	7. John Bloom – 5th July – 18th July

**A/N: Yes, I know Bloom doesn't have a Merc. Sorry, my bad...**

The second time I meet Alisa, it is for a longer time period. I don't announce myself, I don't expect to be warmly welcomed or met with the welcome wagon. I simply stand outside the front door of her father's flat, lean casually against the wall and settle in for the long haul.

At some point in the morning, the door opens and she emerges, dressed in a mediocre school uniform, skirt hitched up, blazer sleeves rolled to above the elbow. As she slams the front door behind her and turns to walk towards the stairs, straight past me, her eyes are fixed firmly to her phone screen.

"Don't you think you should be paying some attention to where you're walking, now that you're deemed "At Risk"?" I ask, half-seriously, and she looks up with a start.

"You." She exclaims, and I laugh.

"Me." I confirm and lean over, my hand reaching out to snatch the offending electronic device. Stepping smartly back, holding the phone out of reach, her face is a mask of confusion and shock.

"What are you doing here? You told Martha I was here, and I talked to her, we arranged a…" her eyes widen in shock as realisation dawns. I hold out my arms and take a mock bow.

"DI John Bloom. Your assigned protection detail until further notice. To accompany you everywhere." As I introduce myself, her eyebrows raise and she fixes me with a slightly suspicious stare.

"How do I know that? You could be someone from the Mafia. You could be trying to trick me, waiting to murder me in cold blood the second I step into the lift." She speculates. I sigh. I have to give her credit for her suspicions, however improbable they are. I hold out my warrant card, watching her read the name. Then I pull out the form that Martha has signed, holding it for scrutiny under her nose.

"See? Signed by the great DSI Lawson herself. But well done for checking. Smart kid–" She cuts me off.

"I'm not a kid." She says automatically, and I raise my hands slightly, nodding my head in agreement, apology.

"Course you're not. Sorry. Smart _girl_. Well done for checking. Most ki- teenagers would have just walked straight off with me. Martha will be impressed to hear her niece has learnt something from her." I finish, and she looks at me incredulously again. "Do you have to look at me like that? I get enough of it from Martha." I find myself saying, and then wish I hadn't. Before I can correct myself, try and make up for it, she's laughed and cut in on top of me, the look disappearing from her face.

"Sorry. I just don't think that's very likely, I hardly see her. Her and dad don't really get on, you see. Something that happened when they were younger, I think. Dad wouldn't tell me exactly. As for the look, well… I guess that runs in the family. Dad does it too. I can just see Martha affixing you with that stare, I heard all about your mysterious disappearances. You better not try any with me, if I get shot on your watch, I don't think you should bother going back to work." She sounds so like Martha, yet with a much softer edge. There is no harshness, and the look that Martha has, the one you get when you've seen terrible things, is missing from Alisa's young face. But I recognise the grim determination, the biting humour, the sharpness. I find myself laughing again.

"You sound like my mother, or my girlfriend! Don't you worry; I know that if I try any tricks, Martha will make my life living hell. Wasn't planning on disappearing." I reassure her, my mind going to Adile as I do. How I've had to let her down, had to disappear for months at a time. Her words to me:

"_I could meet a regular guy, with a regular job, who doesn't disappear for months."_

I shake my head. Alisa's staring at me playfully, a calculating expression on her face. _Oh no. _I think. _Another inheritance. The calculating, scheming, plotting. Can't keep it secret like Martha, though… _Before I can make a wise crack, before I can say anything, she's slipped the heavy-looking bag off her shoulder and is holding it out, one-handed. I can tell by the way her wrist's trembling that it's an effort.

"Come on then, tough guy. You can carry my bag, and we can take the stairs." She's telling me what to do. Unbelievable. But this is one thing I can get out of. I feel a smug grin work its way onto my features.

"Can't." I respond, and she frowns. Twin scowl-lines appear between her eyebrows.

"Why not?" She asks, in a half-irritated, half-wheedling tone, already flexing her arm slightly from the strain.

"Not allowed to. Basic rule of bodyguarding." I explain, but catch sight of her expression, one that I can tell means _"why?"_ I sigh. I didn't want to have to explain this so soon, have to show her. I unzip my jacket and pull it open on the left hand side, revealing the shoulder holster, conveniently hidden by the black leather. And nestling inside it, the shiny, well-oiled handgun, always within reach. Alisa draws in a breath. "I need to be able to reach it, at all times. For my sake, but primarily for yours. Anyone comes near you who shouldn't, anyone threatens you, and this'll be levelled at their head so fast they won't even have time to respond."

I watch her facial expression closely. Some girls would back away at this, some would look scared, but Alisa's face is a mask of composure and calm.

"Cool!" She exclaims. "Can I hold it?"

I realise she means the gun. It's all too easy to picture her holding it, posing dramatically. And all too easy to picture an accident. Police cadets, older than Alisa, have caused catastrophic accidents on wide, open firing ranges; the damage she could cause in an enclosed hallway could be far worse.

"No." I say, too curtly, and she looks surprised by my change of tone. I soften a little. "I'm not allowed to let anyone else hold it. Think what would happen if you accidentally shot _me_!" My crack at humour makes her smile again and she slings the bag back over her shoulder.

"Fine, in that case, we'll take the lift down. I don't _do _stairs." She concedes, and I am taken aback. I'm so used to Martha, stubborn and unrelenting, that Alisa is a breath of fresh air. I know she isn't going to like what I'm about to say though.

"We shouldn't take the lift. Too dangerous." I notice she's raising her eyebrows at me but I continue. "We need to take the stairs. And no, I am still not carrying your bag."

She can see it's pointless to argue, and I escort her down the stairs with no further incident. At the bottom, my car waits, a gleaming black Mercedes. Alisa stops in front of me, and although I can't see her face, I know her jaw has dropped. "Wow." She whispers, although I know that her dad has a near-identical car, one of the new Audis.

"How do you usually get to school?" I ask her, and she spins, her eyes leaving the car reluctantly. I can tell she itches to sit in the leather-effect interior, see what features it has, and above all, ask me how I could afford such a car.

"School bus," she answers, nodding her head to the bus stop across the road. On the basic electronic display attached to the roof of the shelter, I can see the words "School Service" picked out in illuminated orange letters.

"Not any more. From now on you ride with me." The words have an instant effect on her. Her whole face lights up, as though Christmas has come early. "Martha thought that the prospect of shoving me on a bus with a bunch of hormonal teenage girls was too cruel, even for me. Not to mention the stir it would have caused." I continue, and she laughs, no doubt picturing the scene.

I press the button on my key fob and the locks click. "Jump in, then. We need to get you to school on time, preferably. I'm dead if you're late, and besides, we need to introduce me to your teachers."

Alisa all but flat out sprints to the passenger door, trailing a finger over the immaculate black paintwork. "Wow." She whispers again, before opening the door and carefully sliding into the leather seat in a practiced manner. And with a skirt that short, it doesn't surprise me.

She snaps her seatbelt shut without looking, her eyes glossing over the polished chrome interior, the in-built trip computer, the police radio strapped to the dashboard, ugly in comparison.

I turn the key in the ignition and the engine catches beneath us immediately, a quiet, rhythmic purring below us that vibrates our seats gently and thrums in our ears. As I pull out of the car park of the apartment block and onto the main road, following the route Martha made me memorise, she speaks in a hushed, awestruck voice.

"How did you afford this all?" She asks, before realising how rude the question sounds. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to nose… I'm just curious, sorry…"

"No, it's fine, I don't mind. When you've been in the force as long as I have, you acquire a lot of knowledge, a lot of skills. They get pretty keen to hang on to you. Being a detective adds a good ten grand to your salary too, but at the moment the Identity Unit don't get paid any bonuses. Not until Martha's proved we're worth our salt. She's a powerful woman, your aunt. Don't underestimate her."

I let the warning slip before I realise what I'm saying. _Why am I telling her that?_ I wonder, and again realise she's lulled me into saying something I wouldn't usually. I shrug inwardly. _So she's making me act differently to normal, making me act more like myself than I have in a long time._ I don't know why this feels so threatening, so subtly menacing. I know how to adapt myself, sure, but this is different. Maybe it's because she's both so like Martha and yet so not, that I feel I can be myself without anyone leaping down my throat or berating me for some menial offence.

I clench my fists on the steering wheel. _Focus, Bloom,_ I tell myself. I can't let my guard down, not for a single second. If I do that, I could risk exposing not only myself to danger, but her too. And I feel a strange sense of protection towards her. Not just the usual bodyguard-protecting-his-charge kind of protective, but something stronger. More… paternal, I suppose is the word.

_Paternal? _My inner self almost cringes at the word. _Is it that?_ Some deep-rooted, long-buried and forgotten about moral compass asks. _Or could it be you feel about her in a – _

I shake my head and turn to smile at her. "Sorry. Mind wandered. We'd best get you to school. Do your friends know you're not getting the bus?"

"No, I suppose I'd best let them know. Ringing them would be quickest, but I don't have enough credit…" her voice trails off, and I sigh. Taking one hand off the steering wheel, I pull my normal, work phone out of my pocket and offer it to her. I try to ignore the weight of my other phone, tucked inside my jacket, switched off. I try not to think about the stream of messages and voicemails that will flood in when I switch it on. I realise she is staring at the phone in wonder and I laugh.

"What?" I ask, and she pulls a face.

"A Nokia?" She asks, her voice disapproving. "Just when I had you down as a man of taste."

"Alright! Sorry, Miss Technical Critic 2010. Just make the call already! And dial 140 first, I don't want any teenage girls ringing me back." I tell her, and she smiles and salutes in a mock-obedient manner.

"Sir, yes, sir!" She barks in a bad impression of an American army sergeant. As she taps in the digits from memory, she pauses for a second. "That's a point. What do I address you as?"

"Whatever you like." I say, realising just in time that she could misinterpret this. "Within reason! Bloom is fine – Martha always calls me that, no rank, no forename, just "Bloom". Short and to the point."

She nods. "Bloom." She says, like she's testing the word. "Bloooom." She repeats, rolling the word round in her mouth. "Good word."

"All right, Miss Lawson. Don't wear it out. Shut up and call your friend." I tell her firmly, and try to tune out as she holds the phone to her ear, muttering "pick up, pick UP" before excusing herself from the bus journey and telling them not to make the driver wait. She hangs up a second later and presses a few more buttons before handing the phone back to me.

"So, was my humble Nokia good enough for you, your Ladyship?" I ask, and she slaps my arm lightly, an automatic reaction.

"Shut up! Yes, perfectly. I deleted the number from your call log too… I doubt my friends would want a random man phoning them out of the blue." She laughs, and I do too. I seem to be doing a lot of that this morning. I look back at the road and concentrate on driving, and we lapse into silence.

Finally we pull into a long, sweeping driveway, cruise past several parked navy and white buses spilling girls onto the tarmac pavement and coast to a stop outside an ugly, sixties-type building with various newer structures and classrooms attached.

"Here we are." I announce, somewhat unnecessarily and climb out of the car without waiting for an answer, opening the car door for Alisa and taking her schoolbag for a brief second as she concentrates on exiting the car in a ladylike fashion. Handing it back, I walk with her to the reception of the building, guessing by her longing stares at one of the newer parts of the building that her classroom was there, and I'm taking her on a rather long detour.

"Sorry about the detour, gotta meet your teachers first thing. Let them know I am supposed to be here, and I'm not some random man." I explain, and she starts, like she's forgotten I'm there.

"It's fine, I don't mind." She smiles at me, that dazzling smile that seems to light up her whole face. "I don't mind being a little late for–"

Before she can finish her sentence, someone has called her name and she turns, looking around for the voice. She runs to a girl with long, brown hair and hugs her, before leading her over to me by the elbow.

"Charlie, this is DI John Bloom. He's got to follow me around for a few weeks, make sure I don't do anything stupid." She says, and I smile.

"Hi. It's a bit more complex than that, but she got my name right. Nice to meet you." I explain, and the girl smiles, embarrassed. She whispers something in Alisa's ear, who giggles before whispering back. Then the girl is gone, and it's just me and Alisa again.

"What did you say?" I demand, and she raises her eyebrows at me in a manner that is unpleasantly familiar, a look all women do that means "wouldn't _you_ like to know?" before turning and walking inside. I shake my head, exasperated, and follow.

The meeting with Alisa's head-teacher goes better than expected. She welcomes me to the school, and tells me that I can have full access to classrooms and school grounds if required. Alisa fidgets, and I can tell that she resents being ignored in a rare meeting with the headmistress. As we are lead to the staffroom, it's obvious she wants to slip off to her form room, but I grab her elbow before she can make a break for it.

"I can't let you go. I know this is embarrassing and awkward, but I can't let you sit up there unsupervised." I explain, and she glares at me.

"But this is _boring._ Not to mention embarrassing. All the teachers probably think I'm some kind of terrorist target!" She whispers back, and I sigh in frustration.

"Look, just five more minutes, then you can see your friends. I promise. OK?" I assure, and she nods sulkily. Once again, she fidgets as I am introduced to her teachers, staring around the staffroom in wonder, and I realise that for her, this is a whole new world. She has probably never been in here before, and probably won't be ever again. As she finally leads me out, up first one flight of stairs then several more in quick succession, she looks at me and pulls a face.

"Well that was boring. Someone said they had a TV in there. And a doughnut machine. But it was _rubbish. _Poor teachers." She says in an undertone and I nod.

"Oh come on, they're only teachers. Doughnut machines? You don't get that until you join the police force." I joke, and she raises her eyebrows at me again, good naturedly this time. _She really does that too much. _

That's the last thing I have time to think before I follow her through a door and straight into what feels like the lion's den. Twenty-nine pairs of probing eyes stare at me and I stand, frozen in shock for half a second before I remember how to walk and scoot to the back of the room, pulling a chair up and sitting on it backwards. Whispering erupts and I ignore it, focusing on Alisa. She sits near the front, on the right, and I see someone whisper something to her. She laughs and claps her hands, trying to get everyone's attention.

The class carries on talking. The girl who sits in front of her cups her hands round her mouth. "OI!" She yells, silence falls, and Alisa looks at her gratefully.

"Everyone, this is DI Bloom. He's following me around school for a while, police protection detail." The girls make a prolonged "Oo-ooh!" noise, playing it up. "Oh shut up, you lot. Be polite to him, alright?" Alisa threatens, but the class already look bored. Evidently, they aren't used to being told what to do by her. She mutters something under her breath, but I manage to work out what she's saying: "Or he'll nick the lot of you."

I conceal a smile. I've got to hand it to her; she knows how to deal with their rudeness.

Days pass, and gradually the whispers and the staring stops. I am widely ignored by the girls, and that suits me just fine. After a week, I trust Alisa's friends enough to leave her unattended at lunchtimes, sitting in the staffroom drinking coffee instead. She behaves immaculately in school, no trace of the cheek she shows towards me in the tone she uses with teachers, every inch the obedient student, hardworking, high-achieving, answering questions eagerly and correctly.

The only thing I see that annoys me, irritates me beyond belief, yet for no reason I can work out, is how she is treated by her peers. They ignore her, most of them patronising her if they bother speaking to her at all, with her form treating her like a mascot. In her science class, a girl with an upper-class accent attaches herself to Alisa's side, and it's entirely clear she's only doing so now that she's "interesting". After a couple of lessons of Alisa being reserved, wary, she soon drifts off, and she is left alone once again.

With her friends, however, Alisa is a different person. Loud, extroverted, funny… more like she is with me. I'm not sure how I feel about this. I'm happy that she trusts me, but I worry sometimes that it's hard for her to respect me if she sees me as a friend and not a police officer.

We become closer, although she never treats me like a father, more like an older brother. I know it's going to be hard leaving her when the assignment's over, but I tell myself that as long as she has that link to Martha she has a link to me.

Martha is a problem in itself. She's hot and cold, all over the place, one minute treating me with respect, the next contempt. Yet despite all this, she stills manages to maintain that alluring, subconscious air of mystery that so attracts men to her. I realise how little I really know about her. But I realise too just what I really think of her. How I hold her in high regard.

How – although it's hard to admit – I find her attractive. In a domineering, powerful way. Yet I can see too how vulnerable she is, how she puts herself at risk over and over, her one strength also being her one weakness – her obsession with her job.

The more I think about her, the more I want her – so badly it makes my head spin and my fists clench involuntarily. I want to hold her close to me, brush that loose strand of hair behind her ear, whisper words of comfort to her when she hurts. I remember the feel of her hands on my face when I was knocked out, when she cradled my head in her lap. I remember how she fought so hard to get me on her team. How she has total faith in me. How she's trusted me to protect Alisa.

And I begin to feel guilty. I realise that I have a safe, secure job, and yet I constantly risk everything to be with Adile. Who is yet another problem. The long separation – the twenty fourth in three years – is giving me time to reflect. Who do I choose?

Beautiful, Middle Eastern Adile, who comes with a violent family, the Turkish drug lords, and the constant pressure of being Brendan Shea, a man it's getting harder and harder to be? Or Martha, soft English rose, tied to her job yet so uncomplicated, unspoilt, that it's hard to imagine the freedom I could have with her – being myself, for one?

I try not to dwell on the thoughts for too long, instead focusing on the job at hand. But every night, whilst I sleep, their faces haunt my dreams, each of them saying the same words, over and over, the same desperate, longing look on their faces:

"_Choose me… choose me… choose me…"_


	8. Martha Lawson – 10th July

I stride into New Scotland Yard at nine o'clock precisely, a tray of takeaway coffees in one hand and a folder of case notes in the other. The office of the Identity Unit is in total uproar, and I deposit the tray of drinks on Tessa's desk, people brushing past me, talking into phones, typing at their computers urgently.

"What's happened?" I ask Tessa, and she stares at me with a look that tells me I should really know.

"Your _brother _burst in here about forty five minutes ago, yelling that his credit cards have been cloned and his bank account's empty. And the debit cards." She raises her eyebrows at me. "It has to be said, Martha, he's a delightful bloke, your brother. Charming–"

I cut her off impatiently. "Shit… why didn't anyone phone me? I should have been alerted, this is a major case development!" I ask, my tone hard with anger. Tessa's facial expression changes to surprised.

"But he said he called you, before he came in." She says, startled, and I frown.

"No, he hasn't contacted me for a good few days. He's got my number, I gave him my card, but he hasn't rung." I say, confused. "I need to talk to him, now."

"He's in Room Two, with Anthony. I think they must nearly be done, they've been in there a good while." Tessa informs me, and I walk over to the door of the interview room, my thoughts confused. _Why would he say he phoned me? _I wonder, trying to work out why he lied. My hand is reaching for the handle when it opens abruptly, and I take a step back, startled. Anthony walks out, William behind him. He glares at me furiously.

"Ma'am." Anthony's tone is surprised. "Do you want a minute…?" he asks, but I shake my head.

"No, it's fine. Show Mr Lawson out, please." I order, and something in my voice warns Anthony not to argue. He steps past me, and William brushes past me, pausing for a second to stare deep into my eyes.

"You let me down, Martha. You said they were the best of the best. And now look where I am." He hisses, his tone menacing.

"William, I'm sorry… please. Meet me in the Vivaldi Restaurant, tomorrow at twelve. We need to talk." I plead, my tone sounding horribly desperate. He doesn't reply, but glowers at me before walking silently over to where Anthony holds the door out of the office open for him. I close my eyes tightly.

_I've let him down, _I think to myself. _He trusted me, and I've let him down. My officers have let him down, and let me down. Whoever's watch this was is off the team._ I shake my head, trying to clear all thoughts of him and focus on the job at hand. One rogue hope slips through the net, and I hold onto it tightly.

_Please show tomorrow._


	9. Martha Lawson – 11th July

**A/N: I tried to explain a bit more about the mysterious incident in the past in this chapter... enjoy :)**

I sit in the restaurant, trying to stop myself from staring at the clock. The seconds drag into minutes, and twelve o'clock passes. At ten past, I am about to leave when he materialises from nowhere, thumping down in the chair opposite me and affixing me with a practiced glare. "What is it, Martha? What do you want?" he asks snappily, and I take a calming breath.

"I want to apologise for what happened yesterday…" he cuts me off with that dry, bitter laugh.

"Oh, gee, that's jolly kind of you to offer, but I don't think that an apology is going to bring back all that money, somehow. Unless you happen to have half a million pounds spare, then there's not a lot you can do." He stands and is about to leave when I grab hold of his wrist. The contact feels strange. Unlike when he hugged me so awkwardly a week ago, this contact is skin to skin, and it reminds me of the last time my hand made any contact with his skin, thirteen years ago. I let go abruptly.

"Sit down." I say, and my tone is measured, brimming with quiet anger. He sits. "The officer who was assigned to you has been removed from the unit, and DS Wareing will take over. We are in negotiations with the bank, but you will have to provide some kind of proof that it was definitely not you that withdrew the money in order to receive any kind of compensation."

He scowls. "They really thought I'd withdraw five hundred thousand pounds in the space of two days? Then they're stupider than they look." He stands again. "Catch them, stop them. If this isn't enough evidence, I don't know what is. In the meantime, I have to get back to work, try to earn enough money to put food on the table. You might be set up for life with your cosy police pension, but all my financial security's gone out of the window."

This time I let him go without comment. I don't want to have to tell him there's still no conclusive evidence that Caterina is responsible. I don't want to chase after him. I'm tired of chasing after people. Especially after… I sigh. It's no use. As I pick at my food, I let the memories of that day wash over me, transporting me back.

_I was twenty three, a young WPC in the Metropolitan Police. James was twenty four, a Detective Constable, and ravishingly handsome. We were deeply in love, and not only that, we were engaged to be married. Looking back, it was a mistake, but I was young, foolish and enamoured. _

_I had taken James home with me to meet my family, and all seemed to be going well at first. He was getting on well with my father, my mother was charmed by him, and my sister-in-law looked slightly jealous. Even Alisa, three years old and just learning to walk, liked him – he could make coins appear from behind her ears, and make a handkerchief disappear into his clenched fist. She was laughing and clapping her hands when William burst in, cocky, self-assured, pompous. He was going through a successful period at work, and his ego was massive. He sweeps Alisa up into his arms and stares at James critically._

"_And you are?" he asks derisively, and James smiles, the smile that radiated charm and likeability, the smile that made women fall at his feet and men feel at ease. But it seemed that he had found someone immune to its effect._

"_James Thompson. Martha's fiancé. It's nice to meet you at last." James introduces himself politely, and holds out his hand for William to shake. He is met with a scowl of hostility, and withdraws his hand quickly. _

_William puts Alisa down, and takes a step closer to James, looking him pointedly up and down, taking in his well-fitting but inexpensive clothes, his slightly-too-long-to-be-smart hair, his worn but smart shoes._

"You_ want to marry my sister?" William asks. _

"_Yes, I do. We're in love." James responds coolly, keeping a level head. William scoffs._

"_Not if I've got anything to do with it, you're not. No ragamuffin like you is marrying my little sister. She deserves someone so much better." William says quietly, angrily. James turns and walks out, silently, and I rush after him._

"_James?" I call, and he turns. "James, he didn't mean it…" Then I see the hurt look on James' face, and know what's coming, but it still hurts. He turns to me and stares at me pityingly, shaking his head. _

"_I'm sorry, Martha. It's over. I can't marry you if your brother feels that way about me." He says, and with that he is gone. I can't move, can't run after him. I am frozen, legs locked, tears running down my face. I turn and run back into the house, where everyone is still standing in shock. _

"_Martha?" My mother asks, but I ignore her. I stalk over to William and slap him hard across the cheek, screaming, before pounding my fists on his chest as hard as I can._

"_You bastard! This is all your fault! I hate you! I hate you so much! I never want to see you again, ever!" I shout, and my mother drags me away, tries to pull me into her embrace. I don't want to be comforted, or pitied. I tug away and run to my car, tears still pouring down my cheeks, clouding my vision, and I pull out of the drive, managing to make it to the car park of the local supermarket before I break down completely. The words run through my brain, over and over: "I've lost him… I've lost him… I've lost him…"_

I pull myself out of my reverie. It's no use dwelling on the past.

All that matters now is keeping anyone else from getting to my horrible, selfish brother… or my niece. Alisa; intelligent, quick-witted, selfless… so like me that it takes my breath away. I sigh. I've got to protect them both, even if only for her sake – she needs a father. I need to reassess the assigned protection, brief Anthony.

I stand, paying my bill at the counter, before leaving the restaurant, already turning a plan over in my mind, when my phone pings. I look at the screen.

"_One new message from William." _It reads, and I open the message apprehensively.

_Oh, and I don't want any more incompetent police officers trailing me everywhere. You can shove your police protection, I don't want it any more. Alisa can, sure, but not me. Not a hope in hell._

"Shit," I mutter, striding down the road, heading back to the office as fast as I can.

_This, _I think, _has thrown one hell of a spanner in the works._


	10. Martha Lawson – 12th July

The phone on my desk rings, cutting through my concentration. I sigh in frustration and answer. "Detective Superintendent Martha Lawson." I say, my voice sounding strained. The voice at the other end chuckles.

"Hey sis." My brother says. "Sorry, _DSI Lawson._" He laughs again, and I clench my jaw. I really don't want to deal with him right now.

"What do you want, William? If you called to gloat, take the mickey, or try to patronise me about how to look after your daughter – which I seem to be doing a damn sight more of than you – I am not in the mood, so please get lost." I snap, regretting the words almost as soon as they're of my mouth.

"No." He says, his tone serious now, apologetic. "I called to give you a warning."

I laugh bitterly. "About what? The last time you tried to give me a warning, you lost me the one person who truly loved me. And in case you hadn't noticed, I'm a big girl now." I can't seem to help snapping at him again. It's been a long, difficult day, and I don't want to have to deal with his cockiness, his arrogance, right now.

"It's about Alisa. Just – listen." He says, before I can interrupt again. "It's about her and her _police protection._" He emphasises the words, and I know if we were talking face to face, he'd be making quote marks around the phrase with his fingers. "He seems to be awfully close to her. And she seems to hold him in high regard. And yet she treats him like she does her friends. Both respectful… and yet as an equal. It worries me. I'm worried their feelings for each other may be slightly less than the protective feelings of a bodyguard, and the deferential feelings of someone under protection. And as for you… I've seen how he looks at you. He likes you, Martha. It's easy to see–"

I cut him off with another humourless laugh. "You know what I think, William? I think you're just jealous. Jealous that your little girl has found a better father figure. Jealous because he connects with her better. Jealous because someone's interested in me again. Don't try and pull the "protective" crap on me again, either. Just leave them alone. So what if they have a connection?" I ask.

I'm being unnecessarily harsh, I know that, but I can't believe the idea that Bloom and Alisa's relationship would be anything more than professional and strictly appropriate.

"That's not the only connection they'll have if you're not careful." William mutters at the other end of the line.

"What was that, William?" I ask, knowing full well what he said, but daring him to say it again, daring him to argue with me.

"Nothing, sister dearest." He responds sweetly and the line goes abruptly dead. I hang up the phone and sigh, unclenching the fists I subconsciously made and swivelling my desk chair around to stare out the window.

_Could there be something between Bloom and Alisa? _I wonder. _Could her really feel for _me_? _I shake my head, bemused I'm even entertaining the notion. Turning back to the computer monitor, I take a sip of my coffee and try to carry on with the job at hand, ignoring the twin feelings of doubt and pride that niggle at me.

Doubt that Bloom and Alisa could be closer than I thought.

But predominantly pride at the fact of all the women Bloom sees, he notices _me_.


	11. John Bloom – 19th July

As I sit in the meeting rooms of New Scotland Yard, Martha opposite me, I try to put my thoughts about choosing between her and Adile aside. I try not to look at her face; try not to get sucked in by those sparkling hazel orbs, instead focusing on the detail in the carpet, the pictures on the wall. I know if I look at her, I'll end up smiling, the dumb, "in-love" smile that at present only Adile has seen. I've found myself smiling at Alisa like it occasionally, although I hope she didn't see.

I recount details of what I've seen, tailing Alisa like a shadow, and in return, Martha tells me details of the Russian Mafia, details that could help me protect her niece when I'm allowed to get back to her. I wanted to hold this conversation later, whilst Alisa was asleep, but Martha is being dragged to a meeting and so here I am. I worry about my charge like I would a younger sister, nervous that the PC assigned to keep an eye on her until I pick her up from school later will fall asleep or go to the toilet and she'll be snatched.

I shake my head slightly. I'm being ridiculous. _I'm sure he's doing his job perfectly,_ I tell myself, and finally the meeting is over. I snatch up my phone from the desk, rushing from the room and into the car. I drive as fast as the speed limit will permit to the school, pulling up outside reception just as the bell rings.

She climbs into the car without hesitating, folding herself inside in a quick, practiced manoeuvre. She's been running, and I feel flattered for the briefest of moments. Was she running to meet me? I frown slightly, clearing my thoughts, and smile at her.

"Good day?" I ask, and she gives a breathy laugh.

"It wasn't too bad. And before you ask, PC Rivers did an excellent job. Followed me everywhere like a shadow. Which did get a bit annoying, but he was under the orders of the great DI Bloom, I suppose?" She asks, a mischievous grin on her face.

"All right, I confess. What can I say? I was worried about you. Didn't want the nasty men from the Mafia snatching you away. Not on my watch. Although I could have blamed Martha, it was her that dragged me off to that meeting." I confess, and her expression changes, softens.

"You saw Martha?" She asks, and I nod.

"Yeah, had to tell her what you've been doing, that kind of thing. Boring things. She was fine, before you ask. Seemed happy that I was doing a good job, that you're doing well at school, all that jazz." I look at her out of the corner of my eye. "She loves you, you know. Even though she doesn't see you much. She's proud of you."

She blushes and looks down, and silence falls. I wonder if I have overstepped an unspoken boundary. But she needs to know people care about her. More than she knows. More than her dad, who is always working, always away from the flat, although he is deemed "At Risk" too. I can guess that the flat, not to mention Alisa herself, bring back too many painful memories of her mother, who no-one ever mentions. From what I've ascertained through Martha, she died when Alisa was young, and since then her dad has had numerous girlfriends.

As the car draws to a halt outside the apartment block, I am about to speak when she climbs wordlessly out of the car. I sigh, resting my head on the steering wheel. As I follow her and slam the car door shut behind me, I see her stood, waiting impatiently by the bonnet. I am about to speak again when she smiles at me, a smile that speaks louder than any words.

It's a smile that says _"Thank you," "I trust you," "I owe you," "I know she loves me"_ and a million other things besides. I smile back, hesitating less than I used to, and then my phone rings, filling the silence with a harsh, electronic melo dy.

She frowns. And so do I. Something sounds wrong with the ringtone until it hits me. My eyes widen in surprise. It's not my work phone. Which means it can only be…

Adile.

I can see Alisa fidgeting. "Hurry up… either answer it or don't, I really need the loo." she says, and I am torn. I can answer, and let her go on upstairs unaccompanied, putting her at risk, or I can ignore it and risk Adile trying to come and find me.

I make my decision. "Go on up, I'll only be a minute." I tell Alisa, pressing the green "Answer" button and moving the handset to my ear. Adile's voice fills my ears, indignant and impatient. "Brendan… it's been so long. When are you coming back to me, my love?"

Before I can respond, Alisa has run across the concrete and planted a kiss on my cheek. I stare at her, shocked, as she whispers "Thank you. For everything." And runs across the car park, disappearing into the building.

Down the other end of the phone, Adile is furious. "Brendan, who was that? What are you doing? Who are you with? You're with someone else, aren't you? How could you do this to me? I thought you loved me!"

As she continues yelling, I let her. I am staring at the building, subconsciously counting the windows until I find the one that looks onto the stairwell. I wait, expecting Alisa to appear through the glass at any second.

"Brendan? Brendan, are you even listening to me? Brendan?" Adile's voice is shrill with anger, and petulant, like a spoilt child's.

I take a step towards the building, debating whether or not to just hang up, when the top floor of the building is explodes in a fireball. The sound hits me a moment later and I stagger backwards into the car, shielding my eyes.

"Oh SHIT." I whisper the words, hanging the phone up and running towards the fire-topped structure, praying that she is where I think she is. Praying that she hasn't changed since I first met her two weeks ago.

Even from the ground, the fire is all-encompassing, drying out the air around it, sucking in oxygen, getting bigger, hotter and burning more fiercely. I hold my sleeve over my mouth, running the gauntlet, sprinting through the doorway and charging up the stairs. On every landing, the smoke thickens and my eyes start to sting, but I keep going. I need to get her out, I need to save her. It's my fault that this has happened, I need to make amends.

At each floor, I pound on the lift doors desperately, but each time is simply a metallic echo. The smoke is choking me, scalding my throat and lungs, but finally, after what feels like forever, on floor six, there is a different sound. Not an echo, but a dull thump. Praying the electrics still work, praying that there's still some power, I press the button and the doors open a crack with an unhealthy rattling noise. It's enough. Jamming my foot in between and shoving them further open with my shoulders, I see her slumped on the floor, enveloped by toxic smoke. She is face down, and as I scoop her into my arms I turn her over, revealing the long, hairline cut on her temple.

I don't have time to administer first aid. My primary concern is to get her out of the building, into the open air, and clear her lungs of smoke. I run with her as fast as I can down the stairs, nearly losing my footing twice, but eventually barrelling through the entryway and out into the car park. Firemen crowd around me, having arrived whilst I was inside, but I won't let them take her. I lay her on the ground next to my car, checking her breathing, checking for other injuries, making sure she's comfortable. I'm running on automatic, too numb to care what's going to happen when Martha finds out, what's going to happen with Adile, whether I'm hurt, only caring whether Alisa's going to open her eyes any time soon, and if she's alright.

Paramedics crowd round, lifting her onto a stretcher, and I follow them into the ambulance. "I need to go with her." I say, and they shake their heads apologetically. I pull my warrant card from my pocket and flash it. "DI John Bloom. I need to go with her."

As predicted, they relent. I sit next to her, staring at her and willing her eyes to open, willing her to sit up and make a joke about me smelling of smoke or telling an appalling joke about paramedics. But she doesn't. She stays unresponsive, unconscious, whilst they place an oxygen mask over her face, a clip on her finger, hook her up to machines that read off her blood pressure, body temperature, heart rate.

I don't realise I'm crying until they place an oxygen mask over my face, and as I take deep, shaky breaths, I feel the moisture on my face and wipe my eyes quickly, embarrassed. I take Alisa's hand and squeeze it tightly. "Come on, kiddo. You can get through this." I encourage, and we sit like that for the rest of the journey. I don't want it to end. I know what – who – is waiting for me at the hospital, and I don't want to face it. I don't want to answer Martha's questions, contend with her anger, stare her down, beg for her forgiveness.

But then the ambulance stops, the doors are flung open wide, and I am pulling the oxygen mask from my face and walking with Alisa into the emergency department, praying that Martha will take her time getting here, praying that the traffic will hold her up, praying that I'll have a moment or two alone with Alisa.

And at first, my prayer seems to be answered. We walk through the hospital reception unhindered, and I squeeze Alisa's hand in triumph. As we round a corner to enter a cubicle, however, Martha steps out from behind a pillar, face like thunder. "Oh crap…" I whisper, mostly to myself, letting go of Alisa's hand and backing away slightly as Martha walks towards her niece, taking her hand and grasping it firmly, raising their intertwined fingers to her lips and kissing Alisa's hand gently. She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and then turns, spotting me lurking behind another pillar.

I know that it's useless to try and run. She advances on me angrily, her face furious, and I hunch my shoulders as though I'm about to face a physical attack rather than a verbal one.

"What the HELL were you doing?" She says, her voice measured but full of anger. "I trusted you, and you let me down! I _told _you not to let her go near the lift, I _told _you not to leave her alone!"

"Martha, if she hadn't been in the damn lift, she would've been a lot worse than that!" I defend myself, and her eyes flash. I know I've crossed a line.

"So what were you doing whilst my niece was getting blown up by the Russian Mafia? Tell me that, John!" Her voice is getting louder, more out of control. We are attracting curious stares from passing nurses. I don't know what to say. Can I trust her enough to tell her the truth? Or can I incriminate Alisa totally and free myself from any blame?

"She said she needed the toilet and bolted whilst I was getting out of the car. I couldn't stop her, she ran too fast." I lie, the guilt already consuming me. I can tell Martha isn't buying any of it.

"Get out of my sight, Inspector." She orders, and I obey silently.

_Goodbye for now, Alisa. I'll be back. Don't you worry about that._

With that, I turn and walk slowly from the hospital, feeling Martha's gaze burning into my back all the way to the doors.


	12. Alisa Lawson – 19th July

I regain consciousness slowly, clawing my way out of the blackness painfully. I snap my eyes open to dazzling whiteness, and I squeeze them shut again, wincing in pain. I wait for my head to clear and then crack them open the tiniest fraction, looking from left to right quickly and then opening them wider. I blink a few times as they adjust, taking in the white and grey ceiling tiles, the monitors above my bed, the firmly closed door across the room from me.

I try to pull myself up a little, and my head spins. I raise my hand and feel the butterfly stitches across the long, thin cut across my forehead. "How did I do _that_?" I say to no-one in particular, and then my memory returns.

Kissing Bloom on the cheek. Running across the car park gleefully, free for a few seconds. Taking the lift for the first time in two weeks, feeling it rumble under my feet as I ascend the building. The sudden blast, being jolted off my feet. Black.

I frown. Someone got me out of there. I can hear a voice at the back of my mind, but its fading fast, like a dream. "_Come on, kiddo. You can get through this." _My mind whispers. I know that voice –

Without warning, the door opens and Martha walks in. She smiles when she sees I am awake and sat up.

"Alisa." She says, coming over and hugging me carefully. "How do you feel?"

"Not brilliant, but I've had worse." I manage, and she smiles again. Then her face grows serious, and I know what she's going to say before she says it.

"Why were you on your own, in the lift?" She asks, and my face falls involuntarily. I can't drop Bloom in it, can't incriminate him. I don't want him to lose his job, and something tells me he wouldn't want Martha to know about the other phone, the one that he hardly uses.

"Martha, I'm so sorry…" Genuine tears spill down my cheeks, and her face changes, becoming tender and concerned. "I was being stupid. I needed to go to the toilet, and Bloom was dithering about, fiddling around with something in the car, so I just bolted. I thought it would be quicker to take the lift, and I'm so sorry, it's all my fault, please don't be angry with him…" I explain, and she takes me into her arms again.

"It's alright, Alisa, it's OK. No-one blames you, no-one blames him. I'm not angry." She says, in a voice that says she is. "I needed to know. And now I do, so we don't need to discuss it any more."

She takes a deep, fortifying breath. "But there's been some other news. Bad news."

I look at her in a panic. _What? _I wonder. _It's Bloom, isn't it? He's been sacked already. Or worse. Oh my God, what if he followed me and he…_

Martha's voice breaks through my thoughts.

"Alisa, I'm sorry, it's your dad. We thought he was at work, but he was in the flat…" Her voice is choked with tears. "He didn't make it."

In that second, my world, everything I know, comes crashing down.


	13. Alisa Lawson – 21st July

I am sat listlessly on the sofa in my hotel suite when Martha enters to make her announcement. Since I was released from hospital yesterday morning, I've been cooped up here. I suppose she thinks I want some freedom, the chance to stretch my legs. I don't. I like it here. I can sit and think without anyone distracting me, telling me to move, telling me off. I'm allowed to grieve in peace, and that's the way I want it to stay.

"Come on," Martha chivvies. I look at her blankly. "We're going shopping."

My face remains blank, emotionless. My tone is flat and dull. "No, we're not." I tell her, and she clenches her jaw in mild frustration.

"Yes, we are. You can't live in those clothes forever more. And you need to get out of here; you can't just sit and mope all day." She commands imperiously. My face crumples, and I find I'm crying.

"But I want to!" I mumble through the tears, and she sighs deeply.

"Come on, Alisa. It'll do you good." She says, trying to reassure me. I stare at her, eyebrows raised, the tears still flowing. _I don't want to. _I repeat silently, but she's not budging. She relents, coming to sit beside me, wrapping her arms around me. "Please?" She begs, her voice breaking slightly on the word, and I blink in surprise.

_Why is she begging me? _I wonder. _Is it because… _I can hardly bring myself to think it. _She's lost everyone else that ever mattered to her. I've lost my Dad, but she's lost her brother too. She needs me to be strong for her, and she needs to be strong for me. _

I find myself nodding, and she smiles and pulls me to my feet. "Good girl. The only question now is: where to go?" She asks, and I manage to blink away the last of my tears and smile. I think she needs to hear what I'm about to say, think she needs to feel the responsibility I'm about to give her.

"You decide." I say, and she looks shocked. I can practically see the cogs whirring away in her brain, before she beams at me.

"I know the perfect place." She declares confidently, but I can detect the slight note of worry underlying her tone. I try to muster some enthusiasm for her sake, try to at least _pretend_ I'm excited. I snatch my freshly laundered school blazer off the back of the sofa and shrug it on.

"When do we leave?" I ask, my tone light and falsely optimistic. She takes my hand and squeezes it, a gesture that says "thank you". I tell myself I'm only doing this for her, not for anyone else, certainly not for me. _Well, maybe for Bloom… _my subconscious thinks before I can stop it. Martha lets go of my hand and walks over to the door, opening it and indicating I should lead.

"Is now convenient?" She asks me, her tone light and playful. José, stood outside my door, looks surprised, and I realise this is a side of Martha that many people don't see. The playful, less serious side of her that she can never show at work. I exit the room, standing in the corridor as she whispers something to José and he looks at her in amazement before turning and walking down the corridor towards the lift. Martha steers me to the stairs, and I am grateful. Following the …incident, I won't be travelling in any lifts for a while.

We descend in silence, and at the bottom, she nods at the receptionist before leading me out into the car park. Her car is parked in one corner, sides totally parallel to the lines of the space, lined up perfectly. It glints, the silver paint immaculately clean, in the sun, and I begin to realise how Martha likes things to be ordered, neat, perfect. The locks click down and I fold myself inside, looking around and noting the similarities and minute differences with Bloom's near-identical Mercedes. The interior is white leather, unlike Bloom's black, and there is less chrome than his model. She starts the engine and speaks without looking at me, her eyes sliding to take in my facial expression as she does.

"It's nearly the same as Bloom's. Less bells and whistles than his though, he was always one for the gadgets. His is a boy's toy, mine's more… executive chic." She says, her tone hesitant yet at the same time there is the underlying confidence that says "I know you," which is both comforting and threatening.

"I think I prefer yours," I say, not bothering to ask how she knows what I'm thinking. "Much more… understated." I allow myself to hesitate, finding the right word. I can tell she's new to this, new to the concept of looking after teenagers, new to the concept of grieving. She doesn't know how to act, so she tries to carry on as normal. Maybe I should try the same. She laughs, and the sound interrupts my thought process.

"That's what I always say to him," she reveals, and I blink, surprised that she would let slip such a comment. She's usually so much more guarded when it comes to speaking her mind that it almost shocks me. "I always tell him that his is so unnecessarily over the top, one day it's going to get stolen, or he's going to get mistaken for a drug lord of some description. He never listens though, stubborn man."

It's like someone's flipped a switch, and now that she's started telling the truth, being honest with herself, she can't stop. As the drive continues, she talks more and more about work, about the Identity unit, about _Bloom, _that she's a totally different person. As she parks the car and we enter the shopping centre she's driven us to, the constant chatter continues and I find myself relaxing too, telling her things I haven't even told my closest friends. I tell her how I felt when Mum died, what it was like seeing Dad with girlfriend after girlfriend. I tell her about how my so-called friend let me down two years ago and turned most of my year against me, how I feel let down by the school and how I feel like I don't belong there.

She tells me a little more about the incident with Dad all those years ago, about her ex-fiancé. I understand more why she is so wary around men, so reserved and unwilling to get involved. She tells me how her job has taken over her life, and even as she does some faceless person on her contact list calls her phone but she simply takes the handset out and rejects the call with a laugh. It's not a harsh laugh, not an unkind one either, but rather a nervous one. She looks at me and confides: "I haven't done that for years… rejecting a call. Not since I was made a DI, three years ago." I stare at her in amazement. Her dedication never ceases to amaze me, but has she really answered _every _phone call for three years?"

"Yes," she admits, and I realise I have been thinking out loud. "Every last one."

"But… why?" I ask, unable to comprehend it. She shrugs, and the nervous laugh surfaces again.

"Because I've didn't have anything to live for except my job. For a long time it was all I lived for, it took over my life." She explains, and she senses that I'm wondering _what changed?_ She brushes a strand of hair, a strand that has dared to free itself from the rest of the neatly ordered and styled bob, behind her ear and continues in a quiet tone. "I met you. And now I've got something else to live for."

I simply stare at her, words failing me. "Really?" I ask her, my tone hushed although the shopping centre is loud with the sounds of hundreds of conversations and music blaring from concealed speakers.

"Really." She whispers, and tears fill my eyes. She pulls me close again. "Don't cry, please…" she implores, and I smile up at her.

"I'm not crying because I'm sad," I smile through the tears. "I'm crying because I've got a reason to live now too." I hug her back, and she pulls reluctantly away.

"No more tears," she says, and I'm not sure if she's asking me or telling me. I nod, sniffing hard, and we continue as before, filling every second with conversation, a constant barrage of words and sounds coming at me so fast I barely have time to process one nugget of information before one or the other of us moves on, talking about the first thing that comes into our heads. Desperate not to lapse into silence, because silence is worse than the constant noise. Silence gives us both time to think, to contemplate, and that is the one thing neither of us wants to do.

Because with silence comes the guilt, the guilt for not being there for him. For not being the best sister, or daughter, or even just being a friend and being there for him when he needed someone to talk to. But as we walk slowly back to the car, laden down with our purchases, silence falls, and I have time to think.

_Is it my fault? _I wonder. _Is this my fault, he had all those girlfriends to try and have someone to look after me? Could I have stopped him from refusing police protection?_

Throughout the journey home, my guilt continues to build, my thoughts becoming increasingly harsh on myself. _I should have stopped him. It's my fault this happened. If I hadn't been so eager to please him, so willing to take whatever he said as law that I dared not challenge him. I should have – _

"Alisa?" Martha's voice cuts over my self-critical thoughts. "Alisa, we're back." I climb out of the car before turning to her and letting the tears flow freely down my cheeks, making no effort to conceal them. when I speak, my voice sounds small and terrified.

"Martha, I'm scared," I confess in a whisper. She hugs me gently.

"We all are, Alisa. But we have to be strong, for others sake. He… he would have wanted us to be strong, and brave…" Her voice breaks, her words of comfort choked by unshed tears. She unloads the shopping and turns, climbing back into the car suddenly. Turning, I see José walking across the car park towards us and I understand immediately. She doesn't want him to see her crying. I repeat her words of only seconds ago.

"Chin up," I say, and she smiles weakly, the car pulling away abruptly.

But not fast enough to stop me seeing the tears that were trickling down her cheeks.


	14. John Bloom – 22nd July

It's been three days since the bomb went off. Three days since Martha let me see Alisa face to face, two since Alisa was released from hospital. I've spent the last three days worrying, the thought of José protecting my charge both a relief and a worry. I trust him explicitly, but Alisa doesn't know him, and I worry that she'll try to defy him.

It took two sentences for Alisa to clear my name with Martha. She confirmed my story, a fact which amazed me in itself. _Why? _I wonder. _Why would she lie to protect me? _Although my excuse was intact, Martha was still reluctant to let me near Alisa again, and as a result I've been stuck in the office for three days doing "paperwork" under the watchful eye of Anthony. But not any more.

I advance along the corridor of the hotel slowly. Martha's flat was, she declared, far too small for her and a sixteen year old to share, although I suspect she was merely trying to get out of having to look after a grieving teenage girl. I sigh. The hotel is clean enough, tidy, brightly lit, with polite, obliging staff, but I can't help but feel insecure here. Should the need arise, it's impossible to have a gunfight in such a public place without attracting unwanted attention. The exits are impossible to secure, and anyone could pose as hotel staff.

"Bloom!" José calls my name and I look up, my reverie broken. He's jogging towards me from a side corridor and I have to bite down the urge to yell at him not to leave the door unattended. "How are you mate?" he asks, and I shrug.

"Not too bad, thanks… how's Alisa?" I reply, and he shrugs, taking on a sympathetic expression.

"She's as well as can be expected, I guess. She seems to be holding up pretty well, but at night I can hear her crying. I hate working nights, I'm bloody glad you're taking over, mate." He says, and I smile.

Martha's finally trusted me to go back to protecting her niece, but only overnight. Little or no contact with her, but it's better than nothing.

"Well, wouldn't want to keep you from your girlfriends any longer than necessary, would we?" I joke, and José grins. "See you tomorrow morning." And then he's gone, just like that. I walk slowly down the corridor, until I'm stood outside Suite 107. Raising my fist, I knock three times on the hard wood.

"Who is it?" A voice inside calls, and my heart thumps. Alisa.

"Police, open up!" I answer, half jokingly, and a second later the door is flung open and she's stood there, hair damp, dressing gown wrapped around herself tightly, eyes lit up, and her arms are, with no warning, wrapped around my neck, holding me close.

"Oh thank God… you're back, you're back! I thought Martha had fired you or something like that, and I was stuck with him" – she nods her head down the corridor – "Forever more."

Gently, I untangle her arms and enter the suite. Lounge with small kitchenette, two bedrooms, bathroom, the plan said, and I look around, trying to memorise the layout. "It's good to see you too, Alisa. I missed you. I was worried about you. He's been looking after you alright, hasn't he?" I ask, the worry clear in my voice.

"Course he has. I'm still here, aren't I?" she replies, and I smile at her.

"Thankfully. I don't want any more reasons for Martha to put a restraining order on me. Paperwork's not really my thing. Unsurprisingly, I'm more of the action-hero kind of guy." I say, looking down at the floor then back up at her, smiling half-nervously. I'd forgotten what it was like to be able to be myself. Which reminds me.

"Why did you lie?" I ask her abruptly, the words coming out before I can stop them. "To Martha. You didn't tell her I was on the phone. Why?"

She laughs then, that laugh that I know so well. "You work it out, Mr Detective. It's not so difficult." She walks away from me as she speaks, going to lean against the back of the sofa. I shrug my shoulders, a grin working its way onto my face.

"Sit down and close your eyes to think about it. It's really not all that difficult." She invites, and I go over to the sofa, closing my eyes slowly, pulling a thinking face as I ponder the question.

There is a rustle behind me and I crack one eye open a fraction. Which is when Alisa leans down and kisses me full on the lips.

Her lips are soft and warm, and she tastes of cherries and toothpaste. I pull away slowly, reluctantly. "Alisa, this is wrong. So wrong. I shouldn't be doing–" she silences me with another kiss, her hands meshing together behind my neck, holding me close and forcing me to respond. My lips move with hers involuntarily, slowly and softly at first, then faster and faster. It's easy to pretend, and my brain tells me it's Adile, it's Martha, it's anyone but Alisa.

Then her hands go to push the jacket off my shoulders, tugging at the bottom of my t-shirt, and I grab hold of her wrists, pulling away again. "Alisa, I can't. My job… my job is to protect you. Not take advantage of you. You're vulnerable…" I whisper, the last word reminding me of Martha. Alisa places her mouth to my ear and whispers.

"I'm not vulnerable. I want this so badly, more than anything I've ever wanted before. I _need _it. Please. You're not taking advantage of me, not if I want this. And I do. You can't keep get closer to me, can't protect me better, than from my bed, please… Martha doesn't have to know. I won't tell her. I swear to you, I won't. Just once, please…" she begs, and my heart thumps.

I don't want to lose her, but I don't want to lose my job. It doesn't matter that she won't tell Martha, I know that I will have to eventually, before my guilty conscience consumes me totally. At the same time, I can understand what she's saying, understand that she doesn't want me specifically, she just wants someone to hold her close and show her they love her. She wants me to protect her, keep watch over her, and from her bed I would have an advantage over any intruder, being closer to her than them. But I'd also be totally naked, of all clothing and weapons, and unable to defend myself or her. I make a decision.

I let her tug my t-shirt over my head and deposit it on the back of the sofa with my jacket and then grab hold of her wrists as they try to move further south. "No more," I whisper. "This is your lot." She seems to understand, and kisses me again before settling down, head on my chest, and falling asleep.

At some point later in the night, I shift her into the bedroom, tucking her carefully under the covers and kissing her forehead. I curl up the best I can on the easy chair that faces the bed, and finally drift off to sleep, content that anyone who wants to get to Alisa has to get past me first.


	15. José Rodriguez – 23rd July

I return to the hotel at eight o'clock that morning, just as agreed. Knocking on the door of Alisa's suite, I wait for an answer for what seems like forever. Finally losing patience, I fish the master-key from the depths of my pocket, unlock the door and enter, expecting to see at least Bloom awake, sat on the cream leather sofa, drinking coffee with a smug grin on his face like always.

But the suite seems deserted at first glance, the state not changed from last night, except for Bloom's jacket, slung casually over the back of the sofa. And – I look closer, my heart stopping – a shirt. An all-too-familiar grey and white layered shirt. One that I have seen a thousand times over.

A shirt that belongs to DI Bloom.

Who even as I look around the flat appears from the bedroom claimed by Alisa, the one half-filled with the few changes of clothes Martha had bought her, shirtless, stretching and rubbing his eyes. He catches sight of me and freezes. "José," he says. "You're early." He accuses.

"No." I manage. "I'm on time. You …overslept." He shrugs and snatches his shirt off the back of the chair, pulling it on and slipping his jacket on over it.

"Look after her, Rodriguez. She's a special one. Take good care of her." He commands, before slipping out of the door and disappearing down the corridor. I stare after him in disbelief. _He's got one hell of a nerve, _I think. _Especially if he…_ I can't even think it. In an attempt to quell my fears, I lean into the bedroom to see Alisa lying curled on her side on the bed, dressed in a vest top and pyjama bottoms, her dressing gown hung neatly on the back of the door. The duvet is wrapped around her legs, and I pull it up over her before going back to the main room and taking out my phone.

Martha answers on the third ring. "DSI Lawson."

I take a deep breath, unsure how to phrase my fears in a way that won't cause her to overreact completely. "It's DC Rodriguez. I'm calling regarding protection detail." I begin, and I hear her gasp.

"What is it? What's happened? Is it Alisa? Has she been hurt?" I can hear the fear in her voice, imagine her gripping the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.

"I... I don't know." I stammer. I can tell she's confused and I sit down, steeling myself for what I'm about to say. "It's DI Bloom. I think he might have... abused his position of authority." I decide upon. Martha gasps again, and when she speaks again, her tone is clipped, professional and urgent.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying, DC Rodriguez?" She asks.

"Yes, Martha, I am. I want to make an allegation of professional misconduct against DI Bloom." I say, hating myself for what I'm about to do.

**Please R&R the story so far... I will post the last few chapters in the next few days :D**


	16. Tessa Stein – 23rd July

**Thank you for all the views! And as a thank you to my first reviewer, livvyloola, here is the rest of it today :)**

I sit at my desk, staring over at Interview Room One. The door is a good eight or nine metres away, and yet I can hear the occupants argument as loudly as if it had been next to me. Anthony walks in just as Martha shouts: "I TRUSTED YOU TO LOOK AFTER HER AND ALL YOU DID WAS… GET IN HER KNICKERS!"

He looks at me in surprise. "What the hell is going on in there?" He asks me, and I exhale, deciding to start from the beginning.

"From what I've heard, Bloom was assigned protection detail to Alisa overnight, and the next morning José arrives to find Bloom's T-shirt and jacket on the back of the sofa" – Anthony's eyes widen, a silent _"they _didn't_?" _expression on his face. I widen my eyes for dramatic emphasis – "and then Bloom wanders out of Alisa's bedroom, shirtless."

"Holy _shit._" He exclaims. "Did they… you know?" he probes, and I shrug.

"That's what they're "discussing"" – I sketch quotation marks in the air with my fingers – "In there. Except all Martha seems to be doing is yelling, although Bloom's being very quiet, so either he's letting her get it out of her system, or…" I am broken off as Martha yells again:

"DID YOU OR DIDN'T YOU? SIMPLE QUESTION, GIVE ME THE HONEST ANSWER!"

I wince. "…Or he's denying it."

"What do you think then?" Anthony asks, pulling up and chair and sitting beside me, staring at the door, a bemused expression on his face.

"I don't think he did," I admit. "He doesn't strike me as that sort of person." Anthony looks at me like I've just asked him what one add one is.

"Oh come _on_, Tessa. He's capable of far worse than you'd imagine, look at the case with Jane Calshaw. I wouldn't put it past him. He's off the team for sure." Anthony says nastily. I look at him in shock.

"Is that all you care about?" I ask incredulously. "I don't think he would do that. And Alisa's related to Martha, she must be a sensible kid."

"I'VE ALREADY TOLD YOU I DIDN'T! WHY DON'T YOU BELIEVE ME?" Bloom hollers. I flinch. If he's given in and started shouting back, the whole thing will be over in a matter of minutes. "IT'S NOT LIKE I'VE GOT PREVIOUS!"

Anthony raises his eyebrows. "If he didn't do it, why is he getting so pent up over it?" He asks me meaningfully.

"Because he's fed up of being accused of something he didn't actually do?" I suggest, as Martha shouts back:

"PROVE IT! PROVE YOU DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!"

There is a low murmuring sound and I hope that Bloom is calming down. "That sounds promising…" I say to Anthony, before Martha shouts again.

"OH, YOU CAN'T? WELL, LET'S ASK ALISA THEN, SHALL WE?" She yells, slamming out of the room, Bloom following. The look on Martha's face is thunderous, the look on Bloom's is drawn, a cross between anger and resignation. Martha catches sight of us staring. "What are you looking at?" she snaps, striding out of the office already, not waiting for an answer.


	17. Hugh Wainwright – 23rd July

The knock on the door is loud, aggressive, angry. I know who it is instantly, and I know why they are here. "Come in," I call, and the door slams open. Martha Lawson enters, her face somewhere between confused and angry, John Bloom walking meekly behind her.

"Martha," I say pleasantly, and indicate she should sit. Ignoring me, she stands, leaning over the desk, resting her hands one the polished surface and glaring at me.

"Where is she?" She asks, her voice controlled, barely wavering.

"Where is who?" I ask, feigning the necessary ignorance. Immediate understanding would betray my knowledge and I need to maintain a professional façade. It's clear that both her and Bloom are already too personally involved with this case, and I cannot let myself be dragged into the matter.

"Don't play games with me, sir." Martha says. Her tone is measured, calm, but I can sense the underlying menace with each word. "Where is my niece?"

"Ah." I nod knowingly, avoiding meeting Martha's accusatory stare until I have to. I shift a few pens around on my desk, prolonging the silence. Finally I look up, meeting her gaze, and see concern in her hazel eyes. "She has been moved to a safe-house, following the" – I cough discreetly – "_Incident _with one of your officers. My own officers, from B Division, are acting as protection."

Her eyes blaze with fury and I can tell she wants nothing more than to lunge across the desk and grab the front of my uniform. "Where? Where is it?" She all but shouts, and I shake my head sadly.

"I am not at liberty to disclose that information at present." I inform her smoothly, and she laughs bitterly, removing her hands from the desk and walking up and down in front of it, staring at me contemptuously.

"Tell me." She says, icily polite yet demanding. "Please."

I shake my head. "Martha, I can't tell you." I repeat, in case she had trouble understanding the first time.

"Bloom, get out." She commands without turning around, her eyes never leaving my face.

"DI Bloom being here does not make any difference to the matter. I am not able to tell you, because the matter is within your unit. Giving you the address would enable you, DI Bloom or another member of your team to visit Miss Lawson and influence her statement."

"Please." She pleads. Bloom is still stood by the door, unsure whether to stay or leave. "Not as your officer, as a friend, as her aunt, please, tell me."

"Martha, I can't." I say, my tone hard. "I'm sorry, I just can't. Now if you would care to get back to your job and continue with your case, and DI Bloom would like to leave, as he is now suspended until further notice, I have a job to do."

She turns to leave the office, Bloom escaping through the door and down the corridor ahead of her, everything in her body language reading defeat. I sigh. I hate doing this to my officers, but in the case of the girl, I have no choice.

As the door slams behind Martha, I go back to my computer. On the screen, the CCTV feeds from the safe-house show Alisa, lying on the sofa sobbing uncontrollably. She looks so hopeless, so vulnerable – it's hard not to feel some pity for her.

I shake my head. _No, _I tell myself. _Don't get involved, Hugh._

But I look back at the footage one last time before minimising the window, and I whisper involuntarily:

"I'm sorry, Alisa. It's for your own good."


	18. Alisa Lawson – 29th July

The officer holds out the phone and I practically snatch it from his grasp. "Martha?" I ask desperately, and I hear a relieved sob from the other end of the phone.

"Alisa? Oh, thank God you're alright! I was so worried! You just disappeared, and I need to ask you something…" Martha gushes, and I cut her off quickly.

"I know, I haven't got long, but I just want you to know that nothing happened with Bloom. I promise. I was stupid, and idiotic, and I tried to kiss him, and I took his shirt off, but he stopped me, he didn't let me do anything else. I fell asleep on the sofa and I woke up on the bed, nothing happened, I swear." I say in a rush, because it's been plaguing me for days. Ever since the bossy DI Michaels showed up in the hotel room the night after Bloom and I kissed, and announced he was moving me to a "secure location." I don't regret the kisses, but I regret how stupid I was. I was totally out of line, acting like a complete slapper, although I can understand that I wasn't fully aware of what I was doing.

"Alisa, it's alright, I believe you. I just needed to hear it from you. Bloom's on suspension, but AC Wainwright will probably let him come back to work having heard it from you. Has anyone interviewed you?" Martha asks, and I nod my head before realising she can't see me.

"No, nobody. I think they're giving me time to you know… get over everything. What with Dad and then my so-called "trauma" with Bloom – which never actually happened – they just got me here and that's all, really." I explain, and Martha makes a small "hmm" noise.

"That's odd… never mind now though. Where are you?" She asks me urgently as the minute remaining warning bleeps in my ear, but I'm as clueless as she is.

"I don't know, I'm useless at geography. I don't know the road name, sorry." I apologise, and all of a sudden I'm crying.

"Oh Alisa… don't worry. I'm sure they'll get you out of there now. Come back soon, I miss you. I need your help." She implores me, and I smile bravely although she's not here to see me.

"I miss you too." I reply, and then the phone goes dead, my time limit reached. I stare at the dead phone, a hollow feeling in my chest, the tears flowing freely now.

"Chin up," I whisper, my voice choked with emotion. "Be strong."


	19. Martha Lawson – 30th July

**This is a short but pivotal chapter... I figured it would be best to keep it short and dramatic!**

I am sat at my desk, pretending to work, when the phone rings sharply. I don't answer it immediately, instead focusing on the three photographs of William that rest on my desk. In one, he smiles awkwardly at the camera, sixteen years old, in a white shirt and smart school tie. In the second, he looks proudly at the camera, dressed in a smart black robe and mortar-board, clutching a degree in Finance in one hand. The last one, my favourite, is him on his wedding day, with Sarah, my sister-in-law stood with him, confetti fluttering around them as they leave the church, joyous and optimistic.

I smile sadly and answer the phone: "Detective Superintendent Martha Lawson."

"Martha, it's Anthony. I've got some bad news." The voice on the other end begins, and I feel my legs go weak, praying it isn't what I think, that Alisa's safe. "Are you sat down?" he asks, and I manage to mumble a confirmation, grateful for the leather executive chair supporting me.

"It's Alisa," he says, and I give an involuntary cry of fear. "The safe-house was stormed in the middle of the night. She was taken. They've got her."


	20. John Bloom – 31st July

I walk into the Identity Unit, my suspension lifted, to find the office in total uproar. Four or five phone calls seem to be occurring simultaneously, and people are manically typing on computers, filling in forms or simply striding around purposefully. At the eye of this storm is Martha, sat at her desk passively, her head in her hands. She isn't making any effort to conceal her inactivity, and it's her I head towards.

As I pass Tessa, engaged in an argument with an unseen person down a phone line, she smiles at me briefly, but no-one else seems to notice my return. Threading my way through the throng, I flop down in the chair across the desk from Martha, and she looks up, startled at the noise. Her eyes are red-ringed, and I am taken aback. Martha never cries, never shows any weakness. She conceals her vulnerable side well, but it slips through occasionally, although never this much. I can't help but be concerned.

"Martha, what's going on?" I ask gently, and her eyes fill with tears. She blinks them away determinedly and sniffs.

"It's, ah, it's Alisa." She says, battling to keep her voice from shaking. My heart thuds, my brain already assuming the worst, and I understand the passiveness, the red eyes, immediately. My instincts tell me to reach out and take her hand, show her some small display of comfort, but that here in the office it could take on a dangerous new meaning. "The safe-house was stormed on the night of the twenty-ninth, she was …taken." She finishes in a whisper, and I can't keep the horror off my face.

"No…" I try to deny. "She can't have been. AC Wainwright said his best officers were on the case… they can't have got to her…"

"Well they did!" Martha snaps, and I can see the look in her eyes as she battles more tears. "I'm sorry. It's just hard to come to terms with, I've lost her too. I don't know what to do, John." She looks up at me through her eyelashes. "I'm scared for her, John." She confesses, and I take her hand then, involuntarily, squeezing it gently.

"She'll be OK, Martha." I reassure. "She's related to you, she's one tough cookie."

She laughs briefly, weakly, and smiles bravely. "I know," she whispers, making no attempt to move her hand from mine. I feel a spark of hope. _Maybe she feels the same way about me that I feel about her._ I think. "But I can't help imagining things…" She continues, and I squeeze her hand again. "You didn't read the letter, John. The things it suggested they do with her… I can't let that happen to her! She trusts me, she needs our help. We have to find her. We need to get her back and arrest whoever did this to her. _I _need to." She explains in a rush, and I understand what she means.

When Atif hurt Adile, I _needed _to bring him to justice. It may have been a different kind of justice, a much more violent, final kind, but it brought us both some degree of closure on the matter. It becomes a personal need, like breathing or sleeping, that has to be fulfilled – when someone hurts someone you love, you want to hurt them back.

"I know, Martha. I understand. We will bring them to justice, I know we will. Are there any leads?" I ask, and she shakes her head.

"I don't think so, I'm just so out of it, I can't focus on anything." She says hopelessly, shaking her head, trying to pull herself together. "The officers with her were all… k-k-killed…" Her voice breaks and suddenly she's sobbing, right in the middle of the office. Everyone freezes in the middle of what they're doing to stare at her, all unsure how to react, what to do. I act without thinking, scooting around the desk and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She turns her face into my shoulder, and I try to tell myself that she doesn't care who I am, she just needs someone to hold her, reassure her, yet I still find it electrifying to be so close to her, to have her responding under my touch.

"It's alright, Martha." I say as comfortingly as I can, everyone still staring at us in shock. I jerk my head to the right, indicating they should get on with whatever they were doing, and they scurry off again, still shooting us incredulous glances as they do so. "We're going to get them, and we're going to punish them. There's got to be at least one lead. And if we haven't found it yet, then I'm sure we will. We've got the best officers, I mean, just look at Tessa – what she doesn't know about CCTV would fit on the back" – I break off, my brain working furiously – "on the back of the stamp." I finish, shifting slightly so that my arm remains around Martha, yet my body is angled towards Tessa.

"Tessa!" I call, and her head pops up over the low partition that encloses her desk.

"John?" She responds, her phone conversation apparently recently over. Her eyes boggle when she sees Martha with her head buried in my shoulder, and I shake my head the smallest amount possible, beginning to feel Martha's tears seeping into my shirt.

"CCTV feeds, from the safe-house." I say, and she understands immediately. She shakes her head regretfully.

"Whoever it was knew what they were doing. Cameras went down just before they entered, back up after they left. It's just black and static for the few minutes they were in." She informs me, and I frown thoughtfully.

"Shit…" I mutter. "Thanks anyway." I call over, and her head disappears, her eyes back on the screen.

"Always a pleasure, John." She responds, and I smile despite myself. _Always a flirt, _I think, _unlike Martha. _

No sooner have I thought the words than she sits up straight, sniffing hard and wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" she apologises, pulling away from my arm. "God, what must everyone think? I look so stupid, sat here sobbing and snuggling into your shoulder." She says, and my heart sinks. _So she doesn't feel the same. _I am disappointed, although I try my best to hide it.

"They think" – I pick my words carefully – "That you are extremely distraught, following the disappearance of your niece, and that you therefore should not be working in this state. A fact I happen to agree with." I tell her, and she looks at me in shock. I have the good grace to sidle back around to the opposite side of the desk, praying she's not about to totally lose it.

To my surprise, she smiles weakly again. "Thank you, John. Your honesty means a lot." She whispers gratefully and I smile.

"Come on. I'm taking you out for coffee." I say, and it's a command, not an invitation. They are words I've wanted to say for so long, but not under these circumstances. To my surprise, for once she does as bid and stands, pulling on her coat before skirting around her desk and walking with me towards the doors to the office.

We are a couple of metres away when they slam open violently, and a figure crumples to the ground in front of us. Martha screams, backing away, but I know instantly who it is and know that she needs me. I go to the person and roll her onto her back, resting her head in my lap to support it.

Alisa lies there, face covered in dried blood and a mass of purple bruises, eyes closed, her breathing coming in deep, shuddering breaths, hints of a smile etched on her features.

"I made it," she whispers, and I smile.

"You made it, kiddo. You're safe now." I tell her, and she smiles properly then. "It's alright, we'll get you checked over. You're going to be fine, OK?" I reassure her, and she nods, opening her eyes at last and reeling at the brightness.

"Martha," she asks, her voice still weak. "Martha?" she repeats, and Martha approaches slowly, before falling to her knees beside her niece and taking her hand.

"I'm here, Alisa. I'm right here. We need to get you to hospital." She says, and Alisa shakes her head, a tiny, almost imperceptible motion.

"I'm fine." She insists. "_Fine. _It looks a lot worse than it is." Martha nods, relenting immediately.

"Martha, she needs hospital treatment, look at her!" I try to argue, but Martha shakes her head.

"She needs to be with people she knows, just for now. Please, John." She pleads, and I roll my eyes.

"Alright, alright. Come on, kiddo. Let's get you stood up." I say to Alisa, and she takes my hand, struggles to her feet and places her arm around Martha's neck for support. I feel a slight pang of rejection, but shake my head to dismiss it. "Put her in Interview Room One, I'll go and get the medical officer." I command Martha, like suddenly I'm the superior officer. She nods, and I turn to see the entire office staring at us once again. "Back to work!" I shout, and they obey, scuttling back to their desks. Satisfied, I run from the office to fetch medical assistance, returning minutes later with the bemused nurse in charge of patching us up if and when we require it.

She takes one look at Alisa, sat with her head resting on Martha's shoulder, and inhales sharply. Martha looks at her desperately. "How bad is it?" She asks, and the nurse puts her bag down, unpacking pieces of gauze and butterfly stitches and starting to wipe away the dried blood.

"It doesn't look too bad, initially," she assures us, and Martha and I let out a combined sigh of relief. As she cleans and sticks, we sit in silence, until Alisa vaguely resembles a human being again. There are bruises on both her cheeks, and she has three long cuts, one down her left cheek, one along her chin and one, along her forehead, is simply the one obtained in the bombing that has reopened. I look at her and wince.

_It's all my fault. If I hadn't been so stupid, and let her go so far, then she wouldn't have been moved, wouldn't have been taken. I could have protected her…_ I berate myself. _She wouldn't be hurt. Martha wouldn't have broken down in the office._

"All done." The nurse announces, and Alisa looks down, biting her lip nervously. She swallows, and tears spill down her cheeks.

"Not quite," she whispers, and rolls her sleeves up, revealing yet more bruises, a number of criss-crossing cuts and round, raised wounds which I recognise with a sickening jolt as cigarette burns. Martha looks on the verge of tears as the nurse simply begins, wordlessly, disinfecting the marks and bandaging them.

When Alisa's arms are finally bandaged, giving her long, thick, bright-white sleeves and leaving her barely able to bend them, she thanks the nurse and I hold the door open, watching the blue-uniformed woman as she leaves the office, shaking her head. I close the door and look at Martha in a meaningful way. She hugs Alisa once more.

"Alisa, DI Bloom has to interview you now, I'll be right outside, OK?" Martha assures, standing and leaving. Alisa lets her go without a fuss, sitting silently on her chair, staring at me. As soon as the door is closed, she launches into her apology.

"I'm so sorry about what happened in the hotel, I'm an idiot, and this is all my fault, I was just so lonely, and I needed someone, and you were there, and I… I feel like a fool, I've brought all this on myself. I'm sorry…" She says in a rush, and I shake my head slowly.

"It's alright, Alisa. I don't blame you. We're here now, Martha believes you, and you're safe. So everything's halfway to being sorted." I reassure, and she nods slowly. Before she can apologise again, I continue. "I need you to tell me what happened, OK? In your own time."

She nods with more conviction. My initial fears she wouldn't be able to dissipate as she takes a deep breath and begins. "I was watching TV when they came. The first thing I heard was shooting, and then the lights went out and the TV went off. Someone grabbed me, and I tried to fight but they were too strong. They dragged me out of the house, and shoved me in the back of a van.

"They drove me to this warehouse, and then they let me out. There were five of them, all of them in masks, and they just started hitting me, and they wouldn't stop… and the burnings…" – tears are running down her cheeks, but she continues. "They kept asking me where the money was, and I told them I didn't know, but they wouldn't listen, and they wouldn't stop! They just wouldn't stop!"

She pauses, and I take the opportunity to ask: "Where there any distinguishing features about them? Anything that could help us identify them?"

She shakes her head. "No, they had masks on, and it was pitch black, but they kept calling each other "brat" – it's Russian for brother. Caterina used to say it on the phone. And one of them said "Brat Sarenkovic." – "Brother Sarenkovic." I don't know if that's any help. Other than that, they were all Russian, all quite tall, about six foot. Then they got bored, or something happened, and they stopped. I was just lying there and they got back in their van and drove off. I managed to get up and get to the main road, and I hitched here in a police car, they knew Martha. That's how I got in here, without anyone stopping me."

I nod, amazed at her bravery, how she can recount the details so calmly. "OK. That's fine for now. Come on, let's get you out of here." I say, and she smiles at me gratefully, following me out of the interview room and going straight to Martha and hugging her tightly. Alisa whispers something in her ear, and Martha looks up at me in shock.

"John?" she asks, her voice hesitant. "What have you got to tell me?"

I am bewildered. _What have I got to tell her? _I ask myself. _That you love her. _Another part of me answers flippantly, and I blink in surprise. _I'm not sure now is really the time to… _I think, and again the flippant half of me interrupts. _Shut up and get on with it._

"Martha, I just wanted you to know, that I, uh…" I pause, unsure how to phrase what I want to say, the eyes of everyone in the room on me.

"Oh God, you're not resigning, are you?" Martha worries out loud, and I smile and shake my head.

"No, you're not getting rid of me that easily, especially not since I realised that I, well…" I manage before stopping again.

"For God's sake, Bloom spit it out!" Martha snaps, and I look at Alisa for support. She smiles encouragingly.

"Martha, I'm definitely not resigning, especially not since I realised that I feel for you, very strongly." I say, happy that my choice of words leave no room for misinterpretation. I look back at Martha. Her eyes are wide with amazement, her mouth slightly open.

"You mean…?" She asks, and I nod.

"Yes, Martha. That's my way of saying I love you." I announce, and the whole office gasps. I stare at the floor, embarrassed, before I feel a hand on my jaw, raising it, raising my whole face so that I'm facing her.

"I… I love you too." She whispers, and my heart unclenches. And then she's kissing me, and I forget everyone else, forget where we are, forget everything except the feel of her lips on mine, the taste of her, the intense happiness that threatens to consume me. My hands lock behind her head, holding her close to me, and I feel her reciprocate, one hand on my neck the other at the base of my spine, sending shivers of electricity up my spine. I pull away slowly, reluctantly, as the office erupts into applause. I cup her cheek with my hand and smile at her hesitantly.

"You're beautiful," I tell her, feeling her skin flush warm as she blushes. I kiss her cheek and pull further away, leaving my hand in hers, turning to face Alisa, sat smugly on the end of Martha's desk.

"Is this your way of apologising further?" I ask, and she grins.

"Might be." She says. "Or it might just be my way of telling you that both obviously fancied the hell out of each other and it was about time you noticed and acted on it. Possibly both." Her tone is mischievous, light, as she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, wincing as the action pulls at her bandages.

"You two can go on home, I'll take over here," she offers cheekily, and Martha raises her eyebrows at her.

"I don't think so, young lady. _We_ are staying here, and _you_ are not leaving my sight. Don't think that just because I've got a boyfriend, I'm going to go soft on you." Martha quips, causing Alisa to grin further, and it's my turn to raise my eyebrows.

"A boyfriend?" I ask, in mock horror. "You mean you're …unavailable?"

She slaps me lightly on the arm. "Well, I suppose I am… now I've got you as my boyfriend, I'm definitely unavailable!" She answers flirtatiously, and I kiss her cheek lightly.

"Good girl. Right answer." I say, and then I pull away, sitting at my desk and starting to type, leaving her stood, alone, in the middle of the office, staring at me with a secretive smile on her face. Striding back to her own desk, she picks up her phone and types something before sitting down and pulling up her emails.

My phone bleeps and I open the message automatically.

_So… does this mean you're buying me dinner later then? M x_

**Hope that's not too cheesy! There's one more bit to come, so don't panic!**


	21. Epilogue: Alisa Lawson – 7th September

**This is a sort of epilogue, I suppose. Enjoy!**

I stand in front of the mirror in my bedroom, brushing invisible threads off my new skinny jeans and adjusting the long blue and white top that I have chosen to start the term in. Turning, I take the black, fitted blazer off its hanger and slip it on, feeling the soft grey lining on my arms as I adjust the rolled up material at the end of the sleeves so they are equal. It feels cool on the scars from my attack, almost two months ago, but everything feels cool compared to them.

I lean closer to the mirror, examining the three scars on my face. The one on my forehead has almost completely gone, and the one on my chin has healed to a thin white line, disguised with foundation. But the one on my cheek is a wide, long white mark, and the foundation covering it barely disguises it. I sigh. _Let them stare at me,_ I think, _the new girl with the scar. See if I care. _

Martha arranged for me to change schools after Bloom told her how unhappy I was at my old school, so that I could have a fresh start in the Sixth Form. I didn't bother fighting it, and although a small part of me is sad to leave my old school, the new one looks promising. I am surveying myself one last time when Martha calls me for breakfast.

"Coming!" I yell, grabbing my new school bag and leaving my room, dropping it on the floor in the hallway and sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Martha sets a bowl of cereals and a glass of organic smoothie in front of me and I start to eat mechanically.

"All ready for school?" She asks, and I nod. "Excited?" She continues, and I shrug.

"A little bit… mostly nervous though." I confess, and she frowns.

"What of?" She wonders, and I look at her, eyebrows raised. She shakes her head, still oblivious.

"I'm scared they'll know about… the thing. And they'll stare at my scar." I whisper, and she looks at me with a "don't be so silly" expression on her face. But before she can speak, someone behind me has cut in on top of her.

"Come on, kiddo, don't worry. We got those thugs, so if they know about it, that's all they'll know. And as for your scar, it's not that noticeable, and you can come up with some scary story to freak them out if you want." John Bloom says, and I turn to see him leaning casually against the work surface, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. Martha shoots him a reproachful look before he goes and kisses her cheek, and then her expression softens and she smiles.

"John's right," she admits, and he smiles, looking at her and cupping his ear.

"Sorry? Did the great Martha Lawson just admit that I'm right?" he asks playfully, and she slaps his shoulder with the tea towel. I laugh, despite myself. Since John moved in with us a month ago, life has livened up considerably. At first, it was awkward, but since then things have got better, and I've grown used to living with my aunt and almost-uncle. To me, he's still "Bloom", but it's a habit I'm dropping out of, albeit slower than Martha did.

I gulp the last of my cereals and dump my bowl in the dishwasher, hugging Martha briefly as I walk past. Her eyes fix on me briefly before returning to John, and as I leave the kitchen he takes her in his arms and kisses her full on the mouth.

"Oh _please,_" I mutter. "I just ate."

"I heard that!" John shouts, and I laugh, going to the bathroom and cleaning my teeth quickly before scooping up my bag and returning to the kitchen.

"Oh thank God, you've stopped." I joke, and it's my turn to be clipped with the tea towel. "Sorry, sorry! I'm off, see you later."

Martha hugs me again, every inch the overprotective parent. "Good luck," she says, and I smile.

"I'll be fine." I reassure her, and John hugs me carefully.

"Good luck, kiddo. Knock 'em dead." He encourages, and I laugh.

"Will do." I tell him, and he grin. I turn and leave the kitchen, opening the front door and looking back to see them stood in the light from the kitchen window, kissing again. "See you later!" I call, but there is no response. I laugh and shut the door behind me, walking down the stairs, a smile on my face.

I've got a feeling that the future isn't going to be to be too bad.

**Hope you all enjoyed this... please R&R!**


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